Illustration photo: NGANG NGANG
My youngest son called home and said he couldn't come back for Tet this year. Mom sat there in a daze for a while. The wish to have a Tet with all the family members around seemed so difficult to fulfill. One year, my eldest sister was taking care of her daughter-in-law during childbirth, another year, my third brother went north to celebrate Tet with his wife. So, during Tet, some people were present, but others were absent. Watching Mom busily preparing the banana leaves and the pot of braised pork with eggs made me feel sad. I've told Mom so many times, why bother? If we want to eat something, we can just buy it at the market. We don't lack anything, so why worry? But she never agreed. She said, "Buying is not as good as building a house ourselves." And then she would do all sorts of things, just like when we were children.
Coming from a poor family, Tet (Lunar New Year) was the ultimate excitement for the children in the countryside. Tet was the only time they could wear new clothes, eat meat, and avoid working in the fields. We counted down the days until Tet. Sometimes, we'd barely open our eyes before Tet arrived. On New Year's Eve, we were restless and couldn't sleep. My siblings and I clung to Dad's feet, one asking for an extra shirt, another for a pair of sandals, another for a hat. Such innocent childhood. We didn't know that our excitement had ruined so many of our parents' plans. How many times had they had to sell unripe rice to others? How many times had the chickens been sold before they were fully grown? How many times had Dad's wedding earrings disappeared before Mom even remembered them? All their lives, they toiled to raise their children, and during Tet, they only wore old clothes. Some Tets, Dad only had a few pennies in his pocket. They had to scramble everywhere so that my siblings and I could have a warm and comfortable Tet.
Sometimes, hearing Dad complain hurts like hell. He wishes things had been better before, when we were all together, struggling to make ends meet. I told Mom to make fewer rice cakes this year, since there's no one else at home. She said she'd send some to my youngest brother, and make some for the grandchildren too. I feel guilty. Is it really that difficult to give my parents a reunion during Tet?
Dad sat wiping down the incense burners. Every now and then he'd look at me. Back then, Tư used to carry water for Dad to clean, he was such a mischievous rascal, spilling things everywhere. And Út used to hide Dad's chess pieces and play with them, only to frantically search for them when Uncle Tư came over... Dad remembered each of our personalities, and he'd look at me and smile. "And now, if you could smile three times a day, Mom and Dad wouldn't have suffered so much back then." I was the gentlest in the family, so I was often bullied, which is why Mom and Dad loved me so much, afraid I'd be at a disadvantage in the world. Dad and I spent the whole afternoon cleaning the house. Just Dad, me, and endless conversations...
Night falls. The flickering fire from the pot of sticky rice cakes isn't enough to warm the heart. Mom adds firewood to the stove. She glances around aimlessly. She reminds me, "When you're working, endure what you can, but speak up about what you should, because you're too naive now, people might take advantage of you." Then she talks about all sorts of things. A gust of wind makes the fire blaze brighter. I miss the children running around the pot of sticky rice cakes, adding firewood to the stove and waving it around to create flickering sparks. I miss the children asking, "Mom, when will the cakes be cooked?" The children playing "Dragon and Snake" until late at night, the little ones falling and crying, causing the older ones to get a spanking on the bottom. I still remember the fairy tale "The New Year's Pole," every word Mom told me was like a breath of life. Suddenly, I asked Mom, "Mom, what do people hang on the New Year's pole?" Mom smiled, "They hang..." I heard Mom's voice, just like in those fairy tale nights.
Some of my friends texted me to wish me a Happy New Year, and they complained that Tet (Vietnamese New Year) is less fun now than it used to be, that they've lost the feeling of Tet. I just laughed; Tet hasn't disappeared. It's just that when you go back to your hometown for Tet, your mind wanders, you worry about being late for appointments, you're afraid of muddy country roads, you complain about slow 3G, and you can't find Wi-Fi. Have you lost Tet, or is Tet no longer the same? Tet only disappears when you're no longer the person you used to be.
I've never felt so peaceful as during the Lunar New Year holidays because there I have my parents, my loved ones, and all the people I care about unconditionally. I complained to my mother, "Mom, you're taking such good care of me this Tet, I'm getting fat and no one will love me anymore." My father chuckled, "Never mind if no one loves you, just stay single, we'll take care of you. If you had a wife and children, you probably wouldn't come home for Tet with us." Suddenly, at that moment, I wanted to cast everything aside, I wanted to be a child again, to hug my parents and cry uncontrollably.
On the third day of Tet, my siblings and I all came home. That's how it is in this information age; I just need to send a few lines on Facebook, and everyone rushes back. My parents couldn't stop smiling, hugging their grandchildren and kissing their great-grandchildren. The dinner table was bustling with activity, and the children of yesteryear, now with streaks of gray in their hair, sat and reminisced about the old days. My parents smiled, saying, "This year, we don't have to worry about leftover food..."
The children, their hair streaked with gray, vowed to themselves: We'll come home for Tet next year...
NGUYEN CHI NGOAN
Source: https://baoangiang.com.vn/tet-doan-vien--a476718.html
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